


I'll Be Your Gym Class Hero

by acareeroutofrobbingbanks



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: GYM CLASS AU, High School AU, I mean?, M/M, also this is only mature for said one masturbation scene, freshman in senior gym, it's technically underage but it's masturbation so i didn't tag it as underage, jk, warning: like one masturbation scene?, what could go wrong?, you know what they say about snitches and talkers...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3725101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acareeroutofrobbingbanks/pseuds/acareeroutofrobbingbanks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"“Ma’am,” Patrick worked to regulate his breathing. He clenched and unclenched his fists. He could hear his heartbeat, but he was going to stay calm. “It’s a SENIOR gym class. With seniors. All on varsity teams. They have facial hair. Sometimes my voice still breaks.”</p>
<p>She looked very apologetic, but shrugged at him."</p>
<p>Patrick is a freshman in senior gym class. Pete's a soccer star. What could go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Your Gym Class Hero

Patrick had been sitting in the counselor’s office forever. It had been forever. He had died, this was purgatory, and he was going to be here for all of eternity-

“Mr. Stump?”

Patrick ducked into the Last Names S-Z counselor’s office, meeting her for the first time. A woman sat there, very young, very new, with freshly manicured nails and highlighted hair pushed behind her ears.

“Hi, it’s Patrick, right?” she asked, standing up and sticking out her right hand. It was weirdly soft, and Patrick was a little bit stunned by looking at her. Pretty Girl Syndrome, Joe called it. The inability to have the use of his voice around attractive women. (Patrick argued that this was bullshit, because he was gay, and Joe said he didn’t have to be straight to be a socially awkward failure around women.)

“Yes,” he said, schooling his face to look stern. Pretty Girl Syndrome or no, he had to keep his focus, because he had a problem to deal with.

“How can I help you?” she asked. Her hands waved around her face as she did, showing off her white tipped, glossy nails.

“I have a- um- a problem with my- um- schedule.” Patrick, for the record, really hated his voice, and it’s inability to sound anything other than meek and timid.

“Yes?” she asked, fingers now laced over the top of her knee. She moved a lot for a woman who sat down all day.

“I’m in the wrong gym class!” Patrick blurted out. “It’s- my brother, he’s older, he said that Personal Development is the really difficult PE, and he said it’s basically a training program for varsity students and that they run a mile for warm ups everyday and also-” he paused briefly, to breathe. He gulped in air, before continuing- “And also it’s a SENIOR gym class.” He stared her down, heart in his throat. The made a soft humming noise, turned to her computer, and clacked loudly for a minute, before turning back to him with an apologetic expression.

“You’re right, we did put you in a senior gym. Good catch.” She smiled at him.

“Okay, so get me out of it?” Patrick’s voice was somewhat squeaky.

“Ah,” her smile faded, apologies still in her eyes. Patrick didn’t like that look. “I’m afraid that since the renovations are going on with another high school, they’ve sent some of their students here this year, so we’re a little tight on space this year.”

“Tight?” Patrick asked, his voice rising higher.

“All of the other gym classes are filled, Mr. Stump.”

Patrick could hear the crashing sound of his blood against his ears.

“You’re joking, right?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not.” She looked apologetic, but that was so far from good enough.

“Ma’am,” Patrick worked to regulate his breathing. He clenched and unclenched his fists. He could hear his heartbeat, but he was going to stay calm. “It’s a SENIOR gym class. With seniors. All on varsity teams. They have facial hair. Sometimes my voice still breaks.”

She looked very apologetic, but shrugged at him.

“You’re my counselor!” he whined.

“There’s nothing I can do for you, Mr. Stump.” She waved her hand elegantly at the door. Bitch. “It’s the first day, I have to deal with other scheduling issues.”

“FINE!” Patrick yelled, storming out, and hoping that he wasn’t going to start crying.

***

“Lie to me,” Patrick demanded, standing in front of the large double doors with Joe, who was on his way to chemistry. Show off.

“You’re gonna be totally fine, man,” Joe said, slapping Patrick on the back. Patrick looked up at Joe to see if there was any sincerity on his face, but Joe looked down at him mournfully, as though he were at Patrick’s funeral.

“I’m gonna die.” Patrick had come to terms with his death. Joe could have all of his instruments, he probably wouldn’t have to write out a will for his mom to know that.

“I’ll make sure that the funeral is classy,” Joe promised, patted him once more on the shoulder, and said; “I’ve gotta get to class. Good luck!”

The fucker left him. And Patrick walked in.

“I think you’re in the wrong class, son,” a burly, beefy man said to Patrick. Patrick sighed miserably.

“Mr. Watson?” he asked, holding up his schedule. The man looked at the finely printed letters, then back at Patrick, then at the schedule again.

“You realize that this class is a bit… intense, right?” Mr. Watson asked.

“It’s a scheduling error,” Patrick said. Mr. Watson nodded, and shrugged.

“Maybe you’ll bulk up,” he said, and shoved Patrick over towards a group of adults.

Everyone was so way too old to be in high school, with stubble! And muscle! And defined jawlines! And only maybe two of them were under six feet tall. Patrick was not going to cry.

“Alright!” Mr. Watson yelled, making Patrick jump. “The locker rooms aren’t open YET, but just because you aren’t dressing down doesn’t mean you can’t GET TO WORK, does it?!”

“NO SIR!” the whole class except for Patrick chorused back, and Patrick jumped again, his head snapping from side to side in terror at the militaristic response.

“Then let’s warm up with a mile! No less than ten minutes!” Mr. Watson screamed, and Patrick did not whimper. Not audibly, anyway. He also didn’t get stampeded by the seniors, though he did get twisted up in the rush of them. Seeing the coach glaring at him too, Patrick took a deep breath, and began to run after the group of seniors that were already halfway down the track.

Patrick had only just finished his second lap when the first boy jogged over to the coach, beaming proudly and wiping sweat off his forehead. He was pretty, too. Patrick could even have been straight, and this would have been slightly better, but every single guy in this class was gorgeous. His fucking luck.

When he finished his third lap, everyone else in the class was done, and most of them were jeering at him to go faster, and begging the coach to just move on to something else instead of waiting on this kid. Patrick bit down on his lip, and tried not to vomit or die or something equally embarrassing.

As soon as he finished, he wanted to pass out by the side of the track, but the coach nodded curtly at him, and turned to the rest of the class to give more directions.

“All right ladies, that wasn’t a bad warm up, but I expect you all to go much faster once you aren’t in street clothes anymore, is that understood?”

Patrick was more prepared, and this time did not jump when they all screamed “YES SIR!” He felt vaguely like he was sweating blood.

“We’ll have an open gym for the rest of the period, and tomorrow we’ll set up locks and lockers!” Did he have to scream everything?

The boy who finished first grinned at Patrick, a wide, friendly smile, bright white against his tanned skin and dark hair.

“Run faster, pussy,” he said, still grinning, and shoving Patrick hard in the chest. Patrick inhaled deeply.

***

“How are you already sweat soaked? You don’t even do gym on the first day!” Joe looked frightened. Patrick laid his head down on the desk.

“Please just kill me now,” he pleaded.

***

Patrick didn’t know what he had done to get him sent to hell, but that was the only explanation he could come up with. His locker was mercilessly sandwiched between the quarterback, and the pretty boy that ran the mile fastest and hated him, who were, according to the coach’s barking, named Eric and Pete, respectively. Eric was almost seven feet tall and all muscle, glistening with sweat all the time, and had a permanent five o'clock shadow. Pete was very short for the class but still taller than Patrick, and had an honest to god nipple ring. Patrick was definitely in hell, and god definitely hated the gays.

They didn’t shower, according to high school policy, and that was his only solace. Though there was, apparently, an exception to the rule. The swimming unit, which was going to come up around Thanksgiving. Patrick was hoping he could convince his mom to switch him to private school by then.

As soon as they were changing, Patrick was painfully aware of every single gram of fat under his skin as the entirety of the school’s varsity players stripped next to him, shamelessly.

His second day, Pete wanted to show Eric the “totally sick” tattoo he got on his stomach over the summer, and pushed his hips right in front of Patrick as though he didn’t exist.

As though that weren’t enough, Kevin hadn’t lied at all. They ran the mile at the start of every period as a warm up. A goddamn warm up!

And each day in English, right after gym, Patrick would collapse onto his desk, and Joe would make sympathetic noises.

“If you kill yourself in hell, where do you go next?” Patrick asked, and Joe didn’t even respond.

***

Patrick lasted a whole week, albeit going a little slower each time, with his mile run warm up. But his muscles were far from being used to it, and each day hurt more than the last. But after a glorious weekend of resting, he was violently unprepared to do the feat once more.

Patrick had sort of grown used to the jeers. Because the seniors felt bad for him, and they had figured out that he wasn’t meant to be there. Mostly, they politely ignored him. But without fail, after his third lap, they would all start moaning and yelling at him to go faster so that they could get to their gym already, and he couldn’t go any faster if he tried.

“You can run faster than that!” Pete screamed, sounding personally offended that Patrick wasn’t moving like the Flash. The last thing he wanted to do was give this asshole the satisfaction.

But nonetheless, he tried to speed up as they goaded him, ignoring the stabbing, burning sensation in his chest. Maybe they would excuse him if his lungs caught on fire, he thought reverently. He was still running, still forcing his legs to keep moving in the middle of this happy daydream as he got more and more lightheaded, until suddenly he wasn’t. He was on the ground, and Pete was peering into his eyes, looking concerned, which was a nice change from the cocky expression he was usually sporting, Patrick thought. Then he thought “Ow.”

“Dude, are you okay?” Pete asked, on hand in Patrick’s hair, supporting his head with his hand. Patrick could feel his callouses on his scalp, and that was mostly weird.

Patrick _tried_ to say: “Yeah, haha, sorry about that, I’m fine, let me just finish up this lap.”

What came out was: “Ha- yeah- ‘mfine, lemme-” before he trailed off and shut up, because he felt nauseous, and was almost certain that as much as Pete hated him now, he would hate Patrick much more if he were to throw up all over him. Pete looked concerned.

“Dude,” he said solemnly. Patrick closed his eyes, resigning himself to the situation.

“‘mfine,” he mumbled, stubbornly.

“I’m sorry, dude, I thought you were just being lazy. You shouldn’t push yourself _that_ hard,” Pete said. Patrick wasn’t sure he had the energy to laugh condescendingly, so he focused his efforts on disentangling his arms and pushing down on the track, trying to push himself up.

“Whoa, hey there man, don’t rush, you can-” Pete began, but Patrick yet again snapped: “I’m fine!”

He stood up, stretched, and ran the last half of the lap, reaching the coach and the rest of the class with a determined look on his face, and he was not going to cry. Not at school, anyway.

“Nice job, Patrick,” the coach said, not screaming for once. “Maybe sit out for a while.”

Patrick didn’t mention that that was what he did everyday anyway. To his vague distaste, when he sat in his usual corner of the gymnasium, Pete sat down next to him. How did someone look hot in a gym uniform? They all wore the same baggy black shorts and grey shirts, Pete had no right to make it look good.

“I am sorry,” Pete said, sitting across from Patrick with his legs spread wide. Patrick rifled through some ideas for responses in his head, but settled on none of them, and shrugged.

“Really,” Pete insisted.

“If you want me to forgive you, you’re going to have to get used to disappointment,” Patrick said, his eyes fluttering closed. He felt like a computer overheating, at least one thousand degrees.

“I mean it though,” Pete said, and his voice was full of sincerity.

“Good for you,” Patrick said.

It sounded like Pete was going to say something else, but then he didn’t, he just stood up, eventually, and walked away. Patrick fell asleep like that, against the wall, for a good fifteen minutes, and felt much better by the time he changed for English.

***

After the incident, Patrick got an entire week of no one actively yelling at him to go faster; if they had bad things to say about him, they kept it behind his back where he liked it, so Joe could have some whole weird righteous anger when the news got to him, and Patrick could look like the hero for taking it like a good martyr should.

Despite the newfound freedom to not choke on his own lungs, the coach decided that it was time for them to start their first sport unit.

“Rugby?” Joe asked in disbelief, the period before the end, staring at Patrick with secondhand panic. “That’s a contact sport, though. There have to be laws against that sort of thing!”

“I know!” Patrick cried, his shoulders slumping. “But because they do gendered gym classes here…” he shrugged, dejected. “Anyway, you can have my guitars.”

“You won’t actually die, will you?” Joe asked. he looked legitimately concerned, which wasn’t actually making Patrick feel better.

“I don’t know,” Patrick said. “Really, I don’t. It’s football’s more violent and fast paced cousin. On steroids.”

“You’ve survived this far!” Joe said, offering Patrick a shaky and unconvincing smile. Patrick looked upwards, breathing deeply.

“This far,” he agreed.

“And what’s the worst that could happen?” Joe asked.

***

The next time Patrick saw Joe, they were both on the football field, Patrick and his whole class still dressed down for gym, having to face The Entire School in the least flattering uniform of all time. Also, bleeding. Joe pulled him into a hug, seeming not to notice the blood streaming out of Patrick’s nose and onto Joe’s shirt, or the xylon blaring of the fire alarm inside the school. After a minute of hugging, Joe pulled away, a pained look on his face.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I caught the ball by accident,” Patrick said, shrugging, then wincing.

“You have a black eye, a bloody nose, your right arm is twisted the wrong way, and the fire department is here,” Joe said.

“Yeah, well, you should see the other guy,” Patrick said, chuckling weakly. “Um, I caught the ball by accident and got tackled by half of the school’s varsity players? Threw the ball to get it away from me and I guess it broke a window.”

“Dude.”

“Please get me out of this class.”

***

The coach, luckily, seemed to have learned his lesson. Twice. No one goaded Patrick to run faster, and he set aside “reserve players” for both teams, which Patrick never rotated out of. In this manner, he managed to survive the rest of the rugby unit, hardly even sweaty by the time he had to change next to Pete, who hadn’t talked to him since the second week of school. It was better, better enough that Patrick had enough time and room to also worry about the rest of his classes.

Life outside of gym class progressed. Joe got a girlfriend. Patrick responded to craigslist ads for drummers, and would play a gig or two, but never stuck with a band.

In fact, once he got used to the mile, he could mostly forget the horrors of gym class, until they moved on to the soccer unit.

“Come on come on come on!” Pete was back to screaming at him, after lap number two, this time. “Come on, dude, sprint the last lap!”

Apparently, Pete really liked soccer.

“Don’t be a pussy, dude, you must be getting faster!”

Patrick didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t run faster, despite what Pete seemed to believe. He couldn’t respond, because his lungs were currently very dedicated to keeping him alive for the next five or ten minutes. All he could do was continue to run at the pace that the rest of the class slow jogged, while Pete, horror of horrors, started following him down the track, half encouraging, half berating.

“Come on, man, you can do this!”

“You’re fucking pathetic, man, shouldn’t you be getting better?”

With one lap to go, Pete groaned loudly, and said that this “wasn’t worth it.” Patrick wasn’t paying that much attention, he was mostly forcing each step further with extreme will power, and hoping that if he was crying, it would pass for sweat.

Half expecting the gym class to abandon him, he heard yet another loud sigh from behind him, and then there was an arm around his waist, he was staring at the track as it flew behind him, and he twisted up in terror to see Pete. Who had picked Patrick up, and was running with him.

“What the actual fuck?!” Patrick shrieked, trying to twist out of Pete’s arms. Even carrying Patrick, Pete was running faster, which was just way too unfair.

“I run faster,” Pete said, smiling smugly. Patrick tried to free himself from Pete’s grasp, but Pete was way too strong.

“This’ll be easier if you hang on,” Pete laughed. Patrick was so, so not amused. If he stopped running, it would be much harder to call these embarrassed tears sweat.

“Let me go!” Patrick demanded.

“What’s the point? We’re almost done,” Pete laughed, Still laughing. Patrick didn’t see what was funny, or rather, was less amused when it was him that was the punchline.

When Pete dropped him off at the finish line, Patrick could feel his face burning as the entire gym class laughed loudly. Like a pack of hyenas. Like wolves, or piranhas.  

With all the dignity he had left, Patrick walked with the class behind the coach, head held high, and Pete jogged up to him, still cackling.

“Dude, dude,” Pete laughed, “Man, that was good.”

Patrick wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that. It seemed to him like everything Pete said was a verbal form of masturbation,

“Seriously,” Pete continued, “I should just run your mile for you.”

Patrick’s face burned, half in embarrassment, and half in anger.

“I mean, it’d get us to soccer faster, probably. Are you more into soccer than rugby? Do you think you’ll play at all? You look like you could be a decent goalie. Is that it?”

Patrick snorted. It was probably half sob, but it didn’t sound like it, so that was nice.

“I mean, that’s the deal, right? You’ve gotta be some kind of prodigy, and hey, I mean, I’ve met goalies in worse shape than you-”

Was the walk to the soccer pitch always this long?

“-and in any case you seem pretty determined to improve so that’s nice, but I’m just saying that if you’re not a good runner yet you might not improve that fast, and I really need to improve before the soccer season starts-”

“Will you please fuck off?” Patrick asked. Pete looked taken aback, like no one had ever talked to him that way. Maybe they never had. Patrick wouldn’t be surprised.

“What?” he asked, confused, like any other brainless jock would be.

“I said, ‘Will you please fuck off?’ I’m really not in the mood.” Patrick felt vaguely proud at the stunned look on Pete’s face, and he stormed off.

***

The prospect of Pete actually leaving Patrick alone was definitely too good to be true, but Patrick was a dreamer, and he liked to believe. Unfortunately, Pete didn’t seem to be good at taking hints, even ones as explicit as “fuck off”.

Pete finished his mile in record time, zooming around the track blurry fast, and was leaning up against the school building when Patrick finished his second lap.

“Tag me in!” Pete called. Patrick’s face burned, but he kept going forward, increasing speed and ignoring the stabbing in his lungs.

“Come on, tag me in!” Pete yelled at him. Patrick was trying to ignore him, but it was growing increasingly difficult. He heard footsteps pounding up next to him, and swore he wasn’t going to stop, but Pete punched him in the shoulder, too hard to be friendly, and said “Sit down dude, seriously.”

Patrick paused, but to his surprise, the coach was nodding at him, motioning him over to the sidelines.

“Sir?” Patrick asked. He was, above all else, confused.

“Pete offered to run the second half of your mile,” the coach explained. Patrick blinked.

“Is that- is that legal?” Patrick was sort of dazed.

“He’s the best soccer player I’ve got, you think I’m gonna say no to him running more?” the coach laughed loudly. Patrick stared at Pete, who sped around the track but still finished last, sweaty and heaving.

“What’s my time, coach?” he asked. Pete flashed a bright white grin at Patrick, and Patrick offered back a tiny smile in return. Pete beamed when Patrick smiled at him. Oh no.

***

Only running a half mile everyday was paradise, after the mile-a-day hell Patrick had been used to. He never really got a chance to thank Pete, who was always in a huge rush to get to playing soccer, and whom he couldn’t talk to while changing. Nonetheless, he tried to smile thankfully at him whenever Pete looked over, and tried not to get hard when he saw the little glint of metal as Pete pulled his shirt off at in the locker room.

Patrick _liked_ the no talking arrangement. It meant minimal conversations with the pretty boy and minimal time for him to get flustered. Of course, Pete had to ruin that too.

“You can’t bench me!” he was yelling. Patrick, who lived on that bench off to the sidelines, was inclined to agree.

“You want that scholarship? You’re gonna have to learn to pass the damn ball!” Oh dear.

Pete sat down on the bench, not a friendly, no-homo-dude, five feet away, but right on top of Patrick, fuming, and saying “Can you believe him?”

“Um.” Yes. “No?”

“I have got to be training! he can yell at me all he wants but why’d he have to kick me off the field?”

“I- um- I don’t-” Patrick curses the day he were ever given a tongue with which to trip over. “You’ll- um- the lesson will sink in more?”

Pete shot Patrick a death glare, and Patrick looked down at his feet.

“Not saying I agree,” he muttered, “But I’m sure that’s what he’s thinking.”

“Whatever,” Pete flopped across Patrick’s lap, showing a blatant disregard for personal space boundaries that Patrick wasn’t particularly surprised by. “So, you never did say why you’re in this class.”

“Are you asking?” Patrick asked.

“Mmmhmm,” Pete nodded, his head causing friction where there was not. Meant. To be. Friction.

“Scheduling error,” Patrick said. His throat felt dry. “I was supposed to be in the freshman easy gym, blow off class where we walk laps and talk about homework, with the other band nerds. They ran out of space.” Pete let out a short, sympathetic laugh.

“So you really don’t belong here, huh?” he asked. Patrick shook his head. “Sorry, man. Why didn’t you talk to your counselor about it?”

“I did!” Patrick exploded, “I did, and she said she couldn’t help me, and everyone here seems to hate me, but I promise I don’t want to be here!” Pete opened his mouth, maybe to apologize, but Patrick wasn’t done.

“I don’t shoot hoops or run goals or tackle running backs or throw points or whatever the fuck it is all of you do, and I’ve never wanted to, so don’t blame me for not getting me to your kick-y shoot-y hit the ball thing on time, okay?” His chest heaved. Pete, rather than being taken aback, was laughing.

“Dude!” he almost fell off the bleachers laughing.

“What?” Patrick growled.

“I’m sorry,” Pete giggled. “You’re funny, that’s all.”

“Thanks,” Patrick said sourly.

“Not sports, then. What do you do?” Pete stared up at him, utterly ignorant to the whistle blowing and yells coming from the field.

“I drum,” Patrick said with a shrug. “I’m a drummer. I mean, I play guitar too, and a few other instruments-”

“You’re a drummer?” Pete asked, perking up. “Awesome! I’m in the scene a bit, you in a band?”

“Not full time,” Patrick said. “I mean, obviously, but I mean, I usually just fill in for a full shows. Nothing’s really caught my attention. You?”  
“I’m a singer,” Pete said, sounding proud. “Also a bassist. I’m in Arma Angelus.”

_Fuck_.

“No way,” Patrick said, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Pete definitely looked proud. Son of a bitch. What didn’t wonder boy do? “You should drum for us sometime.”

Patrick laughed. “I don’t think I’m really-”

“Just sometime?”

“I think,” Patrick swallowed, “I think that you can go back in now.”

***

Patrick had been dreading the swim unit for a while. The only good news about it was that Patrick was a good swimmer. Well, not good like on the swim team, but he could in fact swim.

The downside was that the coach insisted they rinse off before they in the pool, and actually shower, with soap and shampoo, after they swim. In the big communal locker room shower. In a typical shower fashion. Without clothes.

Everyone could rinse with trunks on, and Patrick simply stuck his hair under the stream for a second before going out to the pool. Much to the entire class’s surprise, including Patrick’s, he finished his laps first. No one was more shocked than the gym teacher, who smiled proudly at Patrick, as though it were he and not Patrick’s mom that was to thank for Patrick taking way too many swimming lessons when he was a kid. He still sat off to the side of the pool when the rest of the class began to play some really extreme, contact sport version of water polo, but just floating around in the water was kind of fun.

It was a really fun time, actually, until they got out, and Patrick’s stomach dropped to somewhere around his knees.

He tried, however feebly, to get around the showering thing, perfectly content to smell like chlorine for the rest of the day, but the coach noticed him, and sent him back into the shower, where everyone else had already stripped- and were all looking at the walls in front of them.

Oh. Duh.

As Patrick got under the stream of water, he suddenly understood that, yeah, no one was looking at him. At all. They were all too busy hoping that no one was looking at them. He wasn’t about to be in a bad, genderswapped version of Carrie! He felt almost close to being nearly comfortable with taking off his trunks, though he was still violently aware of his dick, hanging out in the open with twenty or so senior guys in the same room.

After it sounded like everyone else had ducked out, Patrick thought it was finally safe to turn around and make for a towel, but as he did, he caught sight of- Pete.

Pete, shameless bastard, who turned in a slow circle under the hot water, with his head bent back and his jaw slack, water running down his collar and chest and and through his hair, and had his eyes closed, little rivulets traveling past the nipple ring and down the tattoo on his lower stomach and down to his-

Now, right now, Patrick was certain there was no worse time to get hard. Like, ever. Could he have been making a speech? At a funeral? Not sharing a shower with the super sweet super friendly soccer star rock star? God wasn’t real. He wasn’t just hard, he was painfully hard, and just. Why.

“Hey, dude,” Pete said, and Patrick jumped, even closer to the wall. _Don't have seen. Don't have noticed_. If anyone on the planet would miss the cue to _never mention this_ , it would be Pete fucking Wentz.

“Bell’s gonna ring in a few, I’m gone, you can get out,” Pete said instead, and Patrick breathed again.

And breathed, and breathed, and when he heard Pete’s locker slam, his hand was on his dick, rubbing back on forth jerkily, hurriedly. There was no way anyone was left in there, and really, he was so not going to take long. His teeth dug into his lips as he jerked himself off, breathing heavy, his hips trying to buck forward into something that wasn’t there.

It had never been so short, or so powerful, and in maybe a minute he had to slam his free hand onto the wall, not quite biting back a strained “Fuck!” as he moaned, come splattering on the floor. He moaned, low and quiet, then looked around once more for good measure. He turned off the water, straightened himself up, and grabbed a towel.

Patrick had the towel on his waist and was walking out when he bumped into a wide eyed Pete.

“I- sorry!” Pete gasped, shaking his head like he was stunned. No, no, no way. “I was just, ah, just straightening my hair-” in the mirrors right next to the showers. No no no no no.

“Oh,” Patrick squeaked.

“I should go-” Pete began, and Patrick bolted to his locker. Please, for once in his life, let Pete take a hint.

***

Patrick went right home after gym. And missed the next day. And the day after that. But his mom forced him to go back to school on Friday, and while Pete smiled a little too widely, Patrick didn’t get shoved into a trashcan, so he assumed that things were still okay. He showered much faster afterwards.

***

“So,” Pete was talking to Patrick again, for whatever reason. That was nice. It was also nice that Patrick was wearing a t-shirt again, even if it meant he had to run. “I was wondering.”

“Wondering?” Patrick prompted. He and Pete hadn’t talked since Pete had heard him jerking off, which Patrick thought was a pretty fair precedent.

“Wondering,” Pete agreed. “If you would come to a show sometime.”

Not what he was expecting.

“Sure!” Patrick said.

“Great!” Pete said, standing up to join whatever game of pick up they were playing that day. “I’ll see you then!”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, after Pete had left. “Wait, see you when?”

***

“Hey, you know the senior dude that you want to bone?” Joe asked over lunch.

“Please, raise your voice, I don’t think the whole cafeteria heard you,” Patrick hissed. Joe shrugged.

“Whatever, I’m about to give you the best early Christmas present you’ve EVER gotten,” Joe said, sounding proud. “I was at a show last night, and I heard this dude complaining about his ex boyfriend, coincidentally named Pete Wentz.”

Patrick might have given himself whiplash when his head spun around, but he didn’t think you could do that to yourself.

“No way,” he said.

“And,” Joe continued, “He was complaining that Pete had a weird crush on some annoying freshman dude in his gym class-”

“You’re fucking lying,” Patrick said, looking down at his food again.

“Dude, I wouldn’t make this shit up because it doesn’t even sound real!” Joe did look incredibly sincere, but- “I swear man, he wants to bone you too!”

“Why?” Patrick spluttered.

“Ask him,” Joe suggested. Patrick shot him a withering gaze. “What, if he’s as nice as you say, he won’t be weird about it.”

And, well, how much more humiliated could Patrick really get?

***

Patrick waited until the last day of the semester, just in case. Maybe, he thought, if everything went to shit, Pete would forget over Christmas break.

“You still want me to come to an Arma show sometime?” Patrick asked, all of his nerves steeled. Or ironed. They were some sort of powerful metal.

“Yeah!” Pete lit up, and hey, maybe Joe wasn’t wrong.

“We could, ah,” now was not the time to stutter, come on, “We could get dinner first?” Too vague. “Like a date?” Not subtle, but too late.

Patrick was going to die. Melt. Drop out of high school. Maybe he could-

“Definitely.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! Um, I don't really have an explanation that wouldn't take all day for this one, but I think it's a pretty accurate description of an American gym class. Hoping to update The High Way to Hell soon, but I hope you enjoy this in the meantime! if you haven't read The High Way to Hell, check it out! Thanks again for reading!


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